The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

  “I asked if he was mad at me,” Jonathan added, “and he said he wasn’t, but…”

  Damn it! When he said that, it not only amped up the guilt but made me feel really bad for Jonathan…and a little pissed at Eric for putting us all in this awkward position and behaving like a thirteen-year-old.

  *

  By the end of my stake-out on Wednesday, I was thrilled I’d reached the end of this particular—and excruciatingly dull—assignment. Returning to the office Wednesday afternoon, I hoped to find something on my machine from Eric. With all the time on my hands watching nothing happen with Doug or at the Clark house, I’d spent a lot more time than I wanted to rehashing the Grant/Booth case, which increasingly got blended in and muddled up with the current situation with Eric. And the more I thought of that particular aspect, the more irritated I became with Eric.

  I wasn’t sure whether it was a result of my umpteenth mulling over every aspect of the case, or as a way to vent my frustration with the current situation, but I found myself wondering if I’d been realistic in not seriously considering Eric as a suspect.

  Yeah, a mind-voice said, let it be Eric and then they can send him off to jail and get you out of having to find a rational way out of an awkward situation.

  The instant I thought it, I was ashamed of myself. I tried to step back and look at things logically. Eric had a lot of reason to hate Grant, who he thought was a real threat to the chorus. He was hardly the only one, my mind-voice in charge of logic pointed out. Grant had a knack for pissing people off.

  Grant had been killed by a car bomb. Eric didn’t get along with his parents and resented his brother, and they had died in an explosion. What teenager doesn’t hate his family at one time or another? the voice asked. And it was a natural gas explosion, not a bomb. How many teenagers would be able to rig a natural gas explosion even if they wanted to?

  The bomb’s components had been traced to the company Eric worked for.

  Home ‘n’ Yard is the biggest hardware retailer in the area, the voice countered. Plus, the bomber undoubtedly knew that buying traceable components from a small mom-and-pop store would increase the chance that somebody might remember who bought them.

  Mind-voice 3, Hardesty 0.

  *

  Okay, so Wednesday afternoon finally came, I went back to the office, called Mel Clark, and that was that! Thursday morning, I typed up my bill for Clark, put in a curiosity call to Marty, who wasn’t in, and was once more contemplating my unemployment and the fact that, since I was self-employed, I couldn’t file for unemployment compensation.

  At quarter to eleven, the phone rang. Guess who?

  “Hey, you’re in!” the familiar voice said.

  “Hi, Eric,” I said. “I just got off a case. This is my first day in the office. I got your message and tried to call but your line was busy.”

  “Yeah, like I told Jonathan I’ve been getting some crank calls—I think it’s a teenager from the neighborhood—so I’ve been leaving it off the hook.”

  “Jonathan was worried,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s what he said. Look, I know I’ve been making a pest of myself, but I really think we should have a talk to sort of get some things cleared up.”

  Part of me was relieved to hear him say that. Another part worried about exactly where he was going with this.

  “Sure,” I said. “When and where?”

  “Lunch at your diner? Around one, if that’s not too late.”

  “One’s fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  In a way, I was glad we’d be meeting on neutral territory. It was a rule I’d had since my dating days—never agree to meet a blind date at either his place or yours. A neutral place gives each of you wiggle room if you see things aren’t going the way you’d hoped. Though the situation was totally different here, the principle applied—it’s easier to be objective when other people are in the vicinity.

  *

  I got to the diner at about ten till one and was lucky to grab the only booth available. It still had the dishes on it from the couple who’d gotten up as I walked in, but I took it anyway.

  The waitress came over to clear off the table and hand me a menu. I told her there’d be two of us and ordered coffee.

  Eric didn’t arrive until about ten after, full of apologies. “I’m really sorry, Dick,” he said, “but I had to get a signature from one of the managers and he was on the phone forever.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  There was the usual pause for coffee and another menu and place service set-up and “I’ll give you a minute to decide.” When that was over, I couldn’t resist saying, “So…”

  He looked at me and sighed.

  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he began, “and I figure the only thing to do is to be totally honest with you.”

  Uh-oh!

  “Look,” he continued, “I like Jonathan. I really do. He’s a great guy. But I…like you, too, in a different way. I haven’t been very good at hiding it, I’m afraid.”

  No, he hadn’t. But I didn’t say anything. I was relieved he’d confirmed what I’d thought, but had no idea what he thought could be done about it.

  “I know you really love Jonathan, but to be honest with you, ever since I met you I’ve thought Jonathan wasn’t right for you.”

  “In what way?” I asked, having decided to sit back until everything was out on the table.

  The waitress came back, and we glanced at the menu and ordered.

  “I don’t know,” he continued when she’d gone. “Like I said, he’s a great guy and I really do like him…”

  Yes, you’ve made that point, I thought.

  “…but your personalities are so different. You’re really solid, and Jonathan is still really a kid.”

  He reached quickly across the booth to touch my hand then withdrew. “And please, please, don’t tell Jonathan any of this. I really don’t want to hurt him, or to lose him as a friend.”

  “I won’t,” I said and meant it.

  “I guess what I really want to know is, do you think there might ever be a chance for you and me to…?” He let the sentence trail off.

  I smiled at him and hoped it was sincere. “Look, Eric, I appreciate how hard it must be for you to tell me this, and the same way you really like Jonathan, I really like you. But the fact is that Jonathan and Joshua are the biggest things in my life right now, and I could never think of jeopardizing what I have with them for anything.”

  He’d been looking at the table, but he brought his eyes up to mine at the words right now, and I wished I’d never said them.

  “I understand,” he said. “I really do. And I guess I’d have been surprised if you’d said anything else. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever…” Again, he let the sentence trail off.

  “Eric, I’m sincerely flattered, and I admire your courage in being honest with me,” I said, and truly meant it. “But I’m strictly an old fashioned one-guy guy. And that guy is Jonathan.”

  He nodded but said nothing as the waitress arrived with our food.

  After eating in silence for a minute or two, he looked at me with a small smile. “This may sound corny,” he said, “but can we still be friends?”

  I laughed. “Sure we can!” I said. “And I hope that nothing will change your being friends with Jonathan. He really looks up to you, and he’d feel terrible if anything happened to your friendship.”

  “It won’t, I promise,” he said. “But if anything ever did happen between you and Jonathan, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”

  “You’ll be the first one I call,” I said with a grin.

  We ate in silence for another minute until Eric said, “And I hope this goes without saying, but all this is strictly between you and me, right? You won’t say anything to Jonathan?”

  “Not a word.”

  He sighed. “Good. I just had to get it off my chest.”

  “I’m glad you did. And you’re sure y
ou’re going to be okay with all this?”

  “Sure,” he said with another smile. “I needed to know where I stood. Now, I know.”

  Chapter 15

  To say I was relieved was an understatement. I’m not sure what I expected, other than that Eric would confirm my suspicions. I was very glad that it went as smoothly as it did.

  Marty returned my call late Friday, and I told him I was officially off the Grant Jefferson case.

  “But,” I added, “if it turns out Grant’s murder isn’t tied in with Booth’s, I’m up the proverbial creek. I’ve never had to reopen a case before, and I don’t look forward to the prospect of doing so now.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Ben and Earl are still looking into Charlie Tours’ business associates. Charlie is well known for his intimidation tactics with those who owe him money, and he seems to have some connection—how close is the question—to at least two hitmen, one of whom was released from prison about a week before Jefferson was killed. We’re tracking down his current whereabouts.

  “So, there are still a lot of loose ends out there. We all wish things could go faster than they do. But if you don’t have patience, you won’t last long in this business.”

  “Understood,” I said, reflecting on the virtue of patience and my own sore lack of same.

  We ended our conversation with my usual request to keep me as posted as he could and his usual agreement to do so.

  *

  Yet another blink-and-it’s-gone weekend, and I found myself sitting at my desk on Monday morning trying to find a fifteen-letter word—it ran clear across the width of the puzzle—for “magician.” I’d put in the final “t” in “prestidigitator” when Donna called from Glen’s office asking whether I would like to stop by and pick up my check for the Jefferson case, or if she should mail it to me. I didn’t want to appear too eager, so I told her I could come by later in the morning.

  I was, as always, grateful to Glen for his thoughtfulness and diplomacy in realizing I could use the money, and I’m sure he fast-tracked the payment process for me.

  Eric called Jonathan Monday night, which rather surprised both of us but delighted Jonathan, who really had been concerned about losing his friendship. Needless to say, I had not mentioned my conversation with him, and apparently, he said nothing about it to Jonathan, who was all smiles when he got off the phone.

  “Everything okay?” I asked from the floor, where I had been roughhousing with Joshua.

  “Fine. He apologized and said he’d had a few problems lately and had to get them out of the way. I told him he could always talk to me about them, but he likes to keep things inside.”

  Thank God! I thought.

  *

  Jonathan returned from chorus practice Tuesday night, beaming.

  “I’ve got a solo!” he announced. “Mr. Rothenberger just added it to the program. He said he thought it was perfect for me. Wasn’t that great of him?”

  “That’s fantastic, babe,” I said. I got up to hug him, followed by Joshua, who’d been buttoning up his pajama top in preparation for bedtime but wasn’t about to pass up the chance for a hug.

  “So, what song is it?” I asked, indicating the large kraft envelope he was carrying.

  “Well, you know the next concert is on movie music, and Mr. Rothenberger decided we needed one more song, and he chose ‘A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes’ from Cinderella. The solo part is for a tenor, and he gave it to me!”

  Way to go, Rothenberger! I thought. It was a perfect song for Jonathan, and I was happy and excited for him.

  “Mr. Rothenberger gave me the only copy he has right now so I could study it over,” he said, “but he needs it back and I hate to ask you, but do you think you could photocopy it tomorrow and take the original back to him? He’s ordered copies for the whole chorus, but I don’t want to keep his original for a whole week.”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  We took Joshua into his bedroom for his evening ritual. I’d noticed that while Bunny, his large stuffed rabbit, was still always on his bed, he wasn’t as vital a part of Joshua’s life as he had been.

  “Did you talk with Eric?” I asked when we returned to the living room.

  “A little bit—there really isn’t too much time to talk. Everything’s fine, he’s his old self again. But I’m afraid he might be a little jealous that Mr. Rothenberger gave me a solo. I mean, Eric deserves one a lot more than I do.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t have given it to you if he didn’t think you were the right one for it,” I said. “When he has the right one for Eric, he’ll give it to him.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I guess you’re right. I hope so.”

  *

  There wasn’t any particular reason to go to work on time Wednesday morning, except that I was running a business and didn’t want to miss out on any calls. I fixed the coffee, copied the music, found another envelope for Jonathan’s copy, then sat down for my morning routine.

  I called Rothenberger shortly after nine thirty. I didn’t know what his daily routine might be but figured if he were home he’d certainly be up by that time.

  Sure enough, after the second ring: “Rothenberger here.”

  “Roger, hi, it’s Dick Hardesty.”

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said, uh, pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Jonathan wanted me to return your sheet music. I’ve made a photocopy for him.”

  He chuckled. “Well, that was very nice of him, but it wasn’t really necessary. I’ve ordered additional copies, and they should be here within a few days. Still, I am going over the program music and…”

  “I’ll be happy to bring it over, if you’re going to be home.”

  There was only a short pause before, “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. When would be convenient for you?”

  “Any time at all,” he said. “I’ll be working here all day. I usually have a cup of tea around eleven, and if that’s not too soon, perhaps you could join me.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “I can leave here shortly and should be at your place within forty-five minutes.”

  “I’ll see you when you get here, then.”

  *

  I arrived at Rothenberger’s building at about ten forty-five, finding one side of his street marked NO PARKING 9 A.M. 3 P.M. FOR STREET CLEANING and the other side bumper-to-bumper. I spent a good five minutes looking for a parking place and finally found one a block and a half away on a side street.

  He greeted me at the door carrying a spiral notepad and a sheath of music.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, shifting the notepad atop the music so we could shake hands. I noticed the coffee table, piled high with manila folders and loose sheet music, had been pulled up close to the chair he’d been sitting in during my last visit. Several stacks of other folders and loose papers were on the floor on either side of the chair.

  Motioning me to a chair, he put his notebook and music on top of one of the stacks on the coffee table then moved the stack to the floor to make a clear space.

  “The tea is about ready,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me a moment…”

  He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute or so later with a tray containing two cups, a ceramic teapot, cream, sugar, and a small plate of old-fashioned butter cookies, which he set in the cleared area of the coffee table.

  When we both had our tea and I had taken two butter cookies, he sat down.

  “There’s a lot of work in putting a concert together,” he said, a sweeping motion of one hand indicating the materials all around him. “I think this will be another good one.”

  “I have no doubt,” I said. “I still can’t get over how much I enjoyed the last one. And I very much appreciate your giving Jonathan a solo. He’s ecstatic!”

  He grinned. “One of the things I admire about Jonathan is that you never have to wonder what he feels ab
out things. He’s managed to retain the childlike sweetness and innocence far too many people lose as they grow older. So, whenever I find a song that so closely fits a specific personality, I try to combine the two.”

  I nodded. “You certainly made a good fit with this one. I’d been a bit concerned for him the last few weeks.”

  “About Eric, you mean?” he asked.

  That surprised me a bit. “Yes. Had Jonathan said anything to you?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I knew. Eric tends to get a bit moody from time to time, but he always comes out of it.”

  “Well, I can hardly blame him, I suppose,” I said, “considering everything he’s gone through.”

  He took a sip of his tea. “Yes, I suppose he’s come to look on me as a surrogate father. I have tried to do whatever I could in that area.”

  “You knew him before his family died, you said?”

  “Yes, his mother sang in the same church choir as I, and I became friends with the family. Eric must have been around ten at the time. I felt rather sorry for him.”

  “Ah?” I said, my curiosity piqued. “Why?”

  “His parents were nice enough people, but they made it obvious that Eric was their ‘second son’ in every regard, and while they doted on Walter, it quite often was at Eric’s expense. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, but I could tell it hurt Eric terribly, and Walter didn’t help matters by continually bullying him. If Eric would complain to his parents about something Walter had done, they would side with Walter. Not an easy childhood.”

  “I assume it was you who recommended he see Doctor Meade after the accident?”

  His arm, in the process of lifting his cup to his mouth, stopped in mid-motion.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “It was Eric’s parents who sent him to see Doctor Meade about six months prior to their deaths. He got no counseling after they died, though it was obvious he needed it.”

  Interesting!

  “Who cared for him after his parents’ death?”

  “He went to live with his maternal grandparents,” he said. “They treated him well, but didn’t really have much interaction with him, so he was pretty much on his own. I saw him frequently and did what I could, but he was rather at loose ends until…well, until the chorus formed. He really poured himself into it, and as I’ve said so often, he’s been indispensable to it. So, I’m glad any issues he may have had recently, whether they directly involved Jonathan or not, are resolved.”